


Plant a Single Tree for Me

by purple_bookcover



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Bees, Dedue Week (Fire Emblem), M/M, Sad and Sweet, ashedue, dedashe, i spent like two weeks researching medieval beekeeping for this, post-cannon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2020-01-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:13:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22149985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purple_bookcover/pseuds/purple_bookcover
Summary: After the war, everyone moves on in their own way. Dedue chooses to keep bees and tend a small plot of land in Duscar. But for Ashe, the war has never truly ended...
Relationships: Ashe Duran | Ashe Ubert/Dedue Molinaro
Comments: 40
Kudos: 95





	Plant a Single Tree for Me

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to brag for a second: I LOVE this story. It was a kernel of an idea based off a stupid shitpost on Twitter. 
> 
> But then I found myself chasing it, watching two-hour documentaries about medieval beekeeping, looking up how FE3H's "moons" correlate with the traditional harvesting season for apiaries. I am notoriously a fast writer. But I moved through this like I was trapped in honey, slow and steady and laboring over every word. And it was truly a labor of love, much like Dedue's task in this story.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this as much as I have. It is truly close to my heart.

**Garland Moon**

The drone of the bees pulsed in the air. The insects flitted from skeps woven with reed and straw, emerging from their nests to taste the heat and humidity of Garland Moon in Duscar. 

Dedue watched, scraping at the cow dung coating the skep sitting between his knees. His knife flaked off the dried dung, revealing gaps in the weaving, breaks in the basket that required repair. With knife and awl, he exposed the cracks in the skep basket he'd woven the summer before, places where a spial had left a gap after rod and cone were both removed for the harvest. 

The droning continued, steady as a river, washing in and out of Dedue's awareness as he worked. His horsehair mask and thick clothing made the work difficult--and wearying. Heat billowed within the protective layers he wore. Now and then a bee would come to investigate, smelling the dregs of honey still clinging to the cleared out basket. 

None lingered long before drifting off to return to their colony. 

The pitch of the buzzing would change, Dedue knew. Perhaps soon, perhaps not for days. But eventually the drone would turn into a whine and the colony would leave the skep in a swarm. The scouts were already poking out, bumping against Dedue's mask, tickling his bare hands, investigating his tools. 

Sweat rolled down Dedue's face, but he dared not remove his mask or change his rhythm. It was important to work quietly and slowly to avoid frightening the bees. Every step of the process, from weaving the skeps they'd use as nests to monitoring the swarms to collecting the combs, had to be the impetus of the bees themselves. Dedue would watch. He would wait. He would tend their skeps, feed them, ensure they survived the winter. But he would never force. 

Footsteps beat softly beneath the hum of the bees. Dedue kept scraping at the skep as the steps neared. The bees shifted, curious but unconcerned. 

“How many this year?” Ashe said, crouching beside where Dedue sat on a tree stump with the skep. 

“Twenty,” Dedue said. 

“Seems like a lot to tend by yourself,” Ashe said. From the corner of his eye, Dedue could see Ashe holding up his hand, allowing a bee to stumble across his fingers before flitting away. 

“You'll get stung,” Dedue said. 

Ashe shrugged. 

Dedue set down his tools, removing his mask. The summer air felt cool as it rushed in to replace the staleness of the mask's confinement. Ashe had a quiver at his hips, a bow on his back and at least one knife tucked into his boots. He smiled at the bees hovering close to investigate, but his eyes glazed over with exhaustion as he traced their bumbling flights. 

“Would you care to rest?” Dedue said.

Ashe stood and Dedue followed. “No, not long, anyway. I was just nearby and decided to visit.” 

The hum of the skeps rose. The bees near the pair zipped away to join their hives as the sound gathered up like a wave about to crash. 

“Can I help?” Ashe said.

Dedue shook his head. “I am nearly finished.”

“It seems like a lot to take care of on your own,” Ashe said. 

“Perhaps it is,” Dedue said. He watched Ashe, appraising the tears in the knees of his trousers, the dirt beneath his fingernails, the scrapes and cuts that trickled down his bare arms. “Have a meal with me,” he said. 

Ashe's lips flickered through a frown, but he nodded. “Alright.” 

Dedue could hear the finality of that acceptance, like the high whine of the bees before they left their nests. 

The scouts emerged from the skep. A frantic drone followed, the hum of the brood an anxious thrumming that reverberated in the humid air to echo in Dedue's chest. The hive emerged in a cluster, the bees a dark cloud that swirled and eddied like shifting currents as they left the skep behind. 

“Isn't that a waste?” Ashe said. 

“Hm?” 

“Just letting them go like that,” Ashe said. “Isn't it a waste not to catch them?” 

Dedue shrugged, letting a smile pull at one side of his mouth. “There are many beekeepers in Fodlan who will catch the swarms, yes, but I prefer Duscar's method. They will return eventually.”

“What if they don't?” Ashe said. “What if they never come back? Or die out in the wild? Or don't survive the winter? Or find some place they like better?” 

“Then I've done a poor job,” Dedue said.

He watched Ashe while Ashe watched the swarm, a living cloud coiling through the humidity, searching for a place to land, buzzing from branch to branch in its restless quest. 

“Let's eat,” Dedue said. 

“Sure,” Ashe said.

Dedue led Ashe from the field where the swarm roiled, where yet other swarms waited within their skeps, preparing to flee. Dedue coaxed a meal of honeyed mead and sweet bread and cool fruit into Ashe. Then Ashe left, disappearing into the distance like a cloud dispersing in the warm summer air.

#

**Verdant Moon**

The bees pricked at his hands, anxious as Dedue cut small slivers off their combs. He blew a breath of smoke made of dried ferns to calm them, moving slowly and quietly even as they buzzed near his bare skin, threatening to sting again. 

He added the combs to his basket, then re-sealed the skep with a cloth and set it back on its shelf outside. Dedue lifted the basket of combs, carrying it off to place near two other, similar baskets. 

“Doesn't that hurt?” Ashe said. 

Dedue looked up from his work. He hadn't heard Ashe's approach this time. His footsteps arrived like an erratic tide, washing in, receding for interminable stretches of time. Dedue hadn't seen him since swarming season at the height of summer and here he was again, a bruise smeared under one eye. Dedue wished the weather was still warm so he could see more of Ashe's body, assess the lacerations like lace draped over his arms. 

“Yes,” Dedue said. 

“Then why don't you kill them?” Ashe said. “Is that not how it's done?”

“By some,” Dedue said. “Not by me.” 

“All it would take is a little more smoke,” Ashe said. “They could die quietly and you could harvest in peace.”

Dedue shook his head. “In such circumstances, I would not harvest in peace.”

“But you aren't harvesting a third of what you could.” Ashe had played at ease, but he approached now, scanning the baskets of combs, frowning as he looked between them and the red stings freckling Dedue's hands. 

“I have enough,” Dedue said. 

“Hm,” Ashe said. 

That was the end of their conversation, but not of their time together. Later, after the harvesting was completed and the combs stored for pressing, after they'd eaten and Dedue had washed the stings from his hands, after honeyed mead warmed their bellies and softened their lips, Dedue was able to see more of Ashe. 

Scars fanned out in a pale web on his hands, arms, shoulders, torso, back. Ashe was like a porcelain statue weakened by fissures. Dedue longed to repair the cracks, but the soft trail of kisses he spread over them could only seal the damage temporarily. Still, he could not help but try, could not help but fortify those brittle, hurt places, praying they would not shatter. 

“Stay,” he said.

Ashe did not respond, refusing to fill the dark where their bodies exhaled the heat of their passion. 

“Why?” Dedue tried.

“There's still more to do,” Ashe said. “There's so much to fix.”

“The war is over,” Dedue said.

“Is it?” And Dedue could hear the cracks in his voice now, too. So many little breaks waiting to snap in a calamity.

He could not respond and therefore he did not. Ashe stayed, but only for the night.

#

**Pegasus Moon**

Dedue exhaled a cloud of smoke before he tipped the skep off the shelf. He set it on the ground as gently as he could, brushing off the shelf where it had stood with goosewing. 

He gave the skep a glance. The cone extended down all the way through the woven basket. A healthy, thriving colony. 

Dedue set a plate of sugary food on the shelf, then placed an ill-performing skep over the plate. The switch in positions could aid the struggling colony without harming the thriving one, distributing the work and success of the bees so every skep produced an even yield. It was a simple switch and the bees did not seem to mind, if they even noticed. A slight change in perspective, and suddenly there was enough for all. 

He turned from his work, meaning to scoop more food out onto a plate. His back ached. He had to feed the bees every two or three days in the winter to ensure they survived the cold months. The hives were quieter now. He'd closed up the entrances to encourage the bees to stay, to rest. If they caught a glimpse of sunlight and journeyed out in winter, they could die in the cold, foraging for nothing in the sleeping landscape of Duscar. 

He scooped another lump of sugary food onto a plate, preparing to tilt another skep off the shelf to check it. That's when he saw the horse in the distance, trotting oddly, veering side to side. Dedue narrowed his eyes. Its rider was limp in the saddle, tottering off one side.

Dedue ran to the horse, forgetting the skeps and bee food. Ashe slid off the horse and into his arms. He felt like an empty skep in his hands, light and broken, the fibers weaving him together barely holding. Blood ran down the side of his face. Dedue tore away Ashe's cloak and found his shirt stained dark as wine. He lowered Ashe to the ground. His eyes were shut, but they squeezed tighter with pain when Dedue moved him. Good, at least it meant he was still alive. 

“I must carry you,” Dedue said. “It will hurt, but you must get inside. I will care for you there.”

“OK,” Ashe wheezed past lips gone nearly blue. It was a terrible sight, an image that tightened Dedue's chest like a press wringing honey out of the combs. 

He lifted Ashe as gently as he could, but still heard Ashe gasp as Dedue rose. Every bump of his steps seemed to hurt the man more. Dedue could not pause, though, not until he'd carried Ashe to his home and set him atop the bed. 

Sweat matted Ashe's hair to his forehead and neck. Dedue cut him out of his bloody shirt, exposing the gash beneath. The wound wept when Dedue eased the soiled cloth away from it. 

“I'm sorry,” Ashe said. He spoke in gasps between the pain clenching his teeth. 

“Shh,” Dedue said. “It needs to be cleaned and bandaged.” 

He started to rise, but Ashe caught his wrist. He peered up at Dedue through his pain, his grip so weak Dedue could have broken it with a flick. 

“I'm sorry,” Ashe said again. “I never listen. I always come to you like this. I have to try, though. I can't just let the world be this way and do nothing about it.” 

“I know,” Dedue said. He pulled free of Ashe's hold, squeezing his hand a moment. “Let me fetch the medicine.” 

Ashe nodded, his lips as pale as his face after his brief speech. 

The poultice hurt him terribly, but the wound had to be cleaned. Dedue worked swiftly while Ashe thrashed and ground his teeth. By the time Dedue had the gash cleaned and freshly bandaged, Ashe slipped into an exhausted, breathless slumber, his face still tight with pain.

Dedue wiped his body with cool cloths, removing the blood and sweat wherever he could. Then he tugged off Ashe's boots and tucked him under the sheets of his bed. As a final measure, he found his pipe and blew a soft cloud of sweet-smelling smoke, not the dried ferns he used for the bees but the sweeter plant he kept for himself. He saw Ashe's inhales lengthen, saw his face soften, saw his sleep deepen. Dedue sat by the bedside, smoking in the dark to the soft susurations of Ashe's quieting breaths.

#

**Lone Moon**

One could not keep bees without growing fruit. As the worst of winter eased, Dedue watched the trees and plants for signs that they were emerging from their slumber. The bees could awaken too. He could move them to foraging grounds, where they could nurture the plants as they fed on the fresh bounty of spring. 

Ashe paced through the wild, unplanned orchard at Dedue's side, observing the flowering trees.

“Do you think they're ready?” Ashe said.

Dedue regarded the buds clinging to the branches, feeling for the shift in sunlight, the thawing of the world. “Not yet.”

“The world is still too cold for them,” Ashe said.

“Perhaps,” Dedue said.

It was good to see Ashe up and moving. Still, they had to walk slowly. Ashe was often exhausted from his body's slow healing, but Dedue thought he was far from danger now. He could eat again. He stayed awake most of the day. He'd even begun helping Dedue with some chores about his home and grounds. 

“Will you move the skeps soon?” Ashe said.

Dedue shook his head. “Not until I am sure. It would not do for them to leave too soon. They will only harm themselves if they search for something that is not there.”

“Hm,” Ashe said. 

Dedue feared the way Ashe meandered through the orchards, the way he wandered between the trees in a looping, patternless trail that Dedue could not follow. Each swaying path brought him back, for now, but Dedue knew some day he would leave. He always did. 

“It's a lot of work,” Ashe said, beside him again. 

“Yes,” Dedue said.

“But you enjoy it.”

“I do,” Dedue said. “Very much.”

“Why?” Ashe said.

Dedue pondered this, taking in the field of trees, the hills that rolled off into the distance, the sky washed clean by recent rains. He knew every blade of grass in this little patch of land, this corner of Duscar that belonged only to him. Not to a king, not to a lord, not to an invader or conqueror. Just to him. It was a place no one else seemed to care about, but he loved it all the more for that. 

“I suspect my reason is not dissimilar to your own,” Dedue said.

“What do you mean?”

Dedue rolled his words around his mouth, picking each one carefully, afraid to chase off the man beside him. “I care a great deal for this place. I can not heal every hurt in this land. I can not make every flower bloom or every piece of fruit ripen. But I can look after it, ensure the whole is healthy. And I care very much about doing that. I will not kill the bees for their honey any more than I will cut down the trees for their fruit. There is plenty here, as long as it is tended carefully.” 

Ashe paused. Dedue held his breath, fearing he'd said too much. 

“I understand,” Ashe said. He smiled over at Dedue. “That's a lovely perspective.” 

He kept walking, his eyes fading away over distant hills. Dedue took his arm, stopping Ashe. 

“I do not break myself on this land,” Dedue said. “It gives to me and I give to it.”

Ashe's lips curled. He looked down at his feet a moment before his eyes returned to Dedue. “I have taken so much,” Ashe said. “I have a debt I can't repay. I don't have the option to remain whole.” 

“I disagree,” Dedue said. 

“I've caused too much harm,” Ashe said. “I'm not like you. I'm not that good and noble. I just want to repay my debt.” 

“What of your debt to me?”

Ashe blinked. 

“If you can not stay for yourself, stay for me,” Dedue said. 

Ashe swallowed, looking to the hand on his arm. Dedue removed it, letting Ashe stand free, letting him flee if he must. But Dedue's chest ached just thinking of the possibility. 

A bee flitted by, alighting on a flower just beginning to unfurl in the soft breath of spring air thawing the hillsides. More would follow, if not now, then soon, and Dedue's work would begin anew.

“Duscar,” Ashe said. “Everyone back in Fodlan thinks of it as broken beyond repair, but this place you've created is thriving. It's beautiful. You healed it.”

“No,” Dedue said, “I allowed it to heal.” 

Ashe mumbled to himself, his eyes scanning the copse around them. “Allowed it.” 

“Will you allow yourself now?” Dedue said. 

“How could I?” 

Dedue took him by the shoulders, drawing his gaze up. “Stay,” he said, the scariest word he knew, the plea he'd dared to utter only once before. He wanted to clench tighter, to keep Ashe from drifting off like smoke in the wind, but he forced his hands to remain light, an offer and not an anchor. 

“Just that easily?” Ashe said. “Just stay?”

“It will not be easy,” Dedue said. “We will work hard. There is much to do to preserve this place. The bees will be foraging soon. The skeps must be repaired. They must have homes to return to. And when harvest season comes, we will remove the cones they offer us and be stung many times and press the honey. We will create mead and sweet cakes and wax for candles and we will bring it to Fodlan if you like. We will feed them. We will light the dark. The world will be brighter for our efforts. And this place will heal from its old wounds.” 

“You make it sound possible,” Ashe said.

“It is,” Dedue said. “If we work hard. If we dedicate ourselves to this one small place that we can mend.”

“What about the rest of the world?” Ashe said. “They're still fighting out there. People are still suffering.”

“You can not stop a forest fire with a single bucket of water,” Dedue said. “But you can plant a tree, perhaps just one tree, and care for it and see that it grows to spread the seeds of other trees.” 

“Is it worth it?” Ashe said. “Is it worth it to plant just one tree?”

“It is worth it to the tree.” 

They turned back toward Dedue's home then. Ashe did not speak as they walked and Dedue hardly breathed beside him.

Some days later, Dedue sat outside, repairing a skep clutched between his knees while he watched the bees emerge from their nests. The scouts had returned to report that the trees were flowering at last, opening their blooms to release pollen into the warming air. Dedue would need to move them soon, placing the skeps nearer to the foraging grounds to aid the bees in their work after the long, cold winter. 

He was standing to find his mask and begin the task when Ashe approached from the house. He was covered head to toe, holding the old, spare mask Dedue rarely still used. 

He smiled up at Dedue, who stared unabashedly. 

“Come on,” Ashe said. “There's an awful lot of work to do, isn't there?” 

Dedue did not dare ask. He did not dare to hope too far. He nodded and put on his mask and Ashe did the same. 

Together, they carried the skeps into the orchard, setting them out for foraging. The colonies buzzed around them, flitting here and there, never still, never stopping in one place. But as they smelled the waking land and drank in the fresh pollen of this new spring, they settled on the flowers. Peaceful, still, at home—at least for today.

**Author's Note:**

> Part of my inspiration for this piece came from my favorite Bible story. I'm not religious, but I was raised religious, and there are a few stories that are great no matter what you believe. The story of the starfish is one of them. My retelling is from memory, so it is not anywhere near perfect accuracy, but I don't believe that's important to conveying the message:
> 
> One day, a man was walking along a beach. The tide had just gone out and there were thousands and thousands of starfish on this beach. All stranded. All slowly dying. The man started picking up starfish, throwing them toward the water one by one. 
> 
> A passerby saw him doing this and they stopped and asked, "Why are you doing this? Why are you trying to save these starfish? You can't possibly help them all."
> 
> The man just kept throwing back starfish.
> 
> "Why are you doing this?" the passerby asked. "It doesn't matter."
> 
> The man stopped and he said, "It matters to that starfish." And he walked away, continuing to throw starfish back into the sea, one by one by one.
> 
> -
> 
> I'm on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/purplebookcover) (18+ please).
> 
> I respond to every comment. Thank you, friends!


End file.
